


a spark to ignite

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Detention, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, High School AU, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Modern AU, enjolras speaks in an unnecessarily archaic manner and grantaire finds it quite hot, it's basically an american high school and i have no excuse aside from my limited experience, trans jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right, okay, so.” Courfeyrac draws a sharp slash down the middle of the spare sheet of notebook paper, pencil lead pressing so intently that it nearly breaks. “Basically, if you use the three of us as a basis for judgment, the conclusion can be drawn pretty quickly that no one in detention should actually be here, but is instead just suffering from the gross limited views of the teachers and their desperate rules. Like martyr vigilantes or something."</p><p>Les Amis meet for the first time -- as luck would have it, they've all managed to land themselves in detention on the same day. Inspired by dameferre's tumblr post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a spark to ignite

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not sure if this is the first fic written based on that post, but it had to be done. 
> 
> also, like it says in the tags, the whole damn thing works like the us schooling system, because i'm american and lazy.
> 
> les amis shamelessly include eponine, cosette, and musichetta. there's no denying that they could use more ladies.

“Right, okay, so.” Courfeyrac draws a sharp slash down the middle of the spare sheet of notebook paper, pencil lead pressing so intently that it nearly breaks. “Basically, if you use the three of us as a basis for judgment, the conclusion can be drawn pretty quickly that no one in detention should actually be here, but is instead just suffering from the gross limited views of the teachers and their desperate rules. Like martyr vigilantes or something; hell, I don’t know. I mean, look at this.” He scrawls down three names to the left of the line—Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac. “Let’s put down our motives. Enj, I might need a direct account from you.”

Enjolras, out of the three of them, looks the most coolly out-of-place in the dusty classroom. His dark golden hair, long enough to be slung over one shoulder, is practically glittering in the dull fluorescent light, something that Courfeyrac patiently tries not to hate him for, and his pale grey eyes narrow towards the paper.

“Are you entirely sure that—”

“Totally. Totally. Trust me, they don’t make you do shit in here. It’s best to stay amused as much as possible, or the boredom might kill you or something. Man, come on. I’m trying to bring us to justice here.”

Enjolras huffs through his nose, possibly attempting to suppress a laugh. “Indeed.” His fingers tap delicately against the edge of the table, adding a steady tempo to his unashamed words. “I pulled the fire alarm, and evacuated the school.”

“Over lunch.” Courfeyrac’s scribbling madly.

“Yes, over lunch.”

“Reason being...?”

“Reason being that he thought me to be unjustly detained.” Combeferre is the one who speaks now, a slight edge of amusement curling around the edge of his voice, though he does allow a smile in the direction of Enjolras, who blinks calmly. “And was attempting to free me from this admittedly wretched little prison of a room.”

“Good, good.” Spiraling dark green pen now covers a third of the page. “And you were in detention for?”

“You know that.”

“I’m being official about it. Humor me.”

“I was in detention,” Combeferre recites after a brief sigh, sitting up impeccably straight in his chair, “for defending you against that close-minded chemistry teacher, and his painfully conservative methods of teaching.”

“Excellent, that’s it. Claiming, if I recall properly—and I do, ’Ferre, it’s honestly a shining moment in my high school career—‘The fact that his strength lies in places otherwise than the written test does not make him less than you. In fact, I dare suggest the contrary; your behavior displays remarkable immaturity.”

I dare suggest the contrary, Enjolras mouths, raising an eyebrow. Combeferre resists rolling his eyes.

“Beautiful,” Courfeyrac sighs in delight an instant later, dropping his pen for a moment and flexing his fingers. “Just wonderful. Two jailed for defense of their friends—how classic.”

“Three,” Combeferre offers a beat later, when it becomes clear that Courfeyrac is not continuing to speak, but instead staring proudly down at the messy paper with his chin propped in one hand.

“Hm?”

“Three... jailed.”

“Unfairly prosecuted,” Enjolras suggests vaguely.

“Nice.”

“Of course, of course, just waiting a bit, letting you two absorb your limelight,” Courfeyrac nods, snatching the pen up again. “Good, good, absorbed? Great. So. Then there’s me. I hit a guy in the face.” He pauses, the tip of the pen hovering over the next blank line. “That one’s trickier.”

“You punched him in the face, in a manner most clean and justified, for calling me a fag.” Enjolras pronounces the slur as calmly and delicately as he does every other word, and Combeferre glances up warily, but he doesn’t waver. “Go on, write it down. Truth is the best way to argue.”

“Sure, sure, okay.” The three-lettered insult is a nearly illegible scramble next to the rest of the loopy script. “There you have it, then.” He slams his hand on the desk and leans back, tipping his chair on its back legs until he teeters. “Three innocents, tragically confined after their typical hours of restraint for reasons that are more than justified. Hell, I can see a person in each of these cases who deserves to be punished way more than we do. And, and, and, look.” The last sentence spills out in an excited rush as he combs his fingers through the air above the paper. “Enj, you were defending ’Ferre. ’Ferre was looking out for me, and I was on the defense for you. It’s like a gorgeous little circle of justice and friendship. Actually, cut the friendship part. That just sounds gooey. No, no no, fuck it. We can have a circle of friendship if we want.”

“Indeed,” Enjolras murmurs. Combeferre is biting at his lower lip in an attempt to suspend his impending laughter.

“That’s that, then. It can be our plea for release, if a teacher ever actually decides to come in. Do you have any idea who was supposed to be supervising?”

Enjolras shakes his head, and Combeferre frowns slightly, his dark eyes swimming out of focus as he attempts to recall. “I think,” he begins to pronounce carefully, then shakes the suspicion off. “No... not sure, honestly. Hopefully no one intolerable.”

“Hopefully not that chemistry freak, because holy shit, I am super into the idea of taking one of those fizzy solutions he loves so much and pouring it down his—”

The door bangs open. Courfeyrac, jumping violently and nearly plunging to the floor, manages to catch himself on the edge of the desk, his final word leaping downward in volume—“...shirt.”

Two sharp heel-clicks later, a fourth person is in the room, and she’s definitely no chemistry teacher. Tall, slim, and decked out in enough eyeliner to outdo the average racoon, she stares down at the other three with her stare narrowed and one hand on her hip, white-blonde hair held back in a messy bun, the silver ring in her lip emphasized by the sneer spread across her delicate features.

“Is this the detention room?” she demands, kicking the door shut behind herself.

Combeferre blinks, and a delighted grin slowly begins to grow on Courfeyrac’s face.

“That’s us, yeah. Supervisor’s not here yet, but you can have a free attempt at liberation while supplies last.” He waves the sheet of paper in the air, and she raises an eyebrow, pacing over with a brief, slightly bored glance towards Enjolras and Combeferre.

“Liberation, hm?”

“Right. So if you’re here with good reason, then screw you, go sit in the corner and think about your life choices. Otherwise, give me your name, and I’ll put you down, along with your so-called offense.”

“How rebellious of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I like to think myself as a bit of a rebel every so often.” He flashes a grin at her, dropping the paper and folding his hands behind his head, and tilts the chair back once more. “So? Liberation or damnation?”

Combeferre silently lowers his head onto his desk.

“Let’s go with liberation,” the girl decides with a thin smile, snatching the paper from Courfeyrac and holding it in the air before her. “Oh, look at you lot,” she coos, glancing along the right column. “It’s all defense of... each other. That’s sweet.”

“The strongest actions that can be taken are those that protect one’s friends,” Enjolras speaks up from where he’s been sitting silently, and she turns to him, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, I’ve got that,” she says nonchalantly. “I mean it. Sweet. Kind of adorable, actually.” Somehow, her tone manages to skip cleanly free of condescension. “There should be more boys like you in this wretched school.” Turning in a motion sharp enough to make Courfeyrac jump and nearly tip his chair over once again, she throws the paper down to the desk and whips a black pen out from her pocket, writing rapidly, in a handwriting that’s too soft and bubbly to fit her severe appearance. She scrawls with a focused intensity, and Courfeyrac watches curiously as the words take shape.

“Cosette,” he reads, the syllables overly articulated. “Cute name. It suits you.”

“It’s a nickname,” she replies primly. “Fuck off.”

“Oh... alright.” He pauses just long enough to get a proper eye on the offense that she’s now writing, then another wicked grin springs to his lips. “Dress code, eh? For leggings?”

“Dress code,” she agrees, throwing the paper violently upon the desk and stepping back with her arms folded and a cold smirk on her lips, “for leggings.”

“I’ve always found the dress code to be unnecessarily restrictive, and sexist on more levels than one,” Enjolras comments, watching Cosette with a suspiciously narrowed silver gaze. “I am sorry that you find yourself victim of it.”

Her eyebrows dart up once more. “Do you always talk like that? Too cool for contractions, mm?”

Courfeyrac leans forward, his arms extending to dangle off the desk as he twists to press his cheek against the wood. His eyes are wide as he stares up towards Cosette. “It’s a problem,” he stage whispers. “Our Enjolras is a sad victim of century displacement. Honestly, I sometimes think he has the heart and soul of a true nineteenth-C revolutionary. Unfortunately, this modern age leaves him with no one to fire his guns at.”

Cosette perks. “Do you have any guns?”

“This modern age,” Enjolras hisses, “is immensely dangerous to all those not favored by the majority. The lack of bloody battles does not make up for the subtle and outright prejudice both displayed towards oppressed group on a constant level—simply because you happen to be of a favored race and gender, Courfeyrac, there is no reason for you to pretend as though the cruelty doesn’t exist—”

“Dude, dude, hang on. First off, I’m not all that privileged. Pansexy points, right?” He flashes his brightest grin yet in Cosette’s direction; she stifles a giggle. “More than that, your virtuosity doesn’t quite excuse your frighteningly archaic speech.”

Enjolras sighs and rolls his eyes, but the faintest of smiles is traceable upon his lips; Combeferre, glancing up once more, has a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

“I think it’s cute,” Cosette declares, taking a step closer to Enjolras’s desk and looking down at him with bright curiosity. “Really, do you always talk like that? In classes and all?”

“He does,” Combeferre mutters.

“But he doesn’t play for your team, babe, so it’s better not to stress him,” Courfeyrac cuts in, an edge of genuine warning in his tone.

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps I only want to be his friend? You men never seem to understand that we don’t all want in your pants, for God’s sake. You. Enjolras. Tell me more.”

He doesn’t display even the briefest hesitation before straightening up, intensity flaring in his features. “Gladly. You see—well, take us for instance. Stuck here, after hours, when perhaps we have responsibilities. Perhaps our families are low on money, barely have enough to sustain us this far—we have jobs to get to, quite likely, and yet here we are, demoted to sitting about and doing... why, doing nothing; that is the sense of public education, you see? They think only to punish us for what they deem to be misbehavior—and their own rules, of course, are already twisted, for they try to encompass the majority, with no thought to those of us with different—”

When the door opens this time, it’s much more softly than before, almost as if the skinny, freckled boy shouldering it is wary of causing any sort of disturbance. His eyes are light and careful as he glances across the room, a backpack slung over one shoulder and his hands tucked in his pockets. The other four watch in silent curiosity as he moves to the other side of the room and takes a seat in the corner, the chair scraping against the floor. Wordlessly, he unzips the backpack, removes a folder, and sets it upon the desk.

There’s a pause as he pulls his pencil from a pocket and opens the folder.

Courfeyrac clears his throat and leans over the desk until his stomach is practically pressing against it. “Free liberation attempts,” he offers, waving.

The boy glances up, looking around as though he’s unsure that he’s the one being addressed. When he takes note of the fact that the other four are all gazing at him, he carefully straightens the folder on his desk before speaking.

“Come again?” His voice is soft, a little unsure.

“Liberation.” Courfeyrac crosses his arms, the paper wandering between his fingers. “We’ve decided that detention is an unjust punishment, and that we should try to make our way out of it by way of... uh, have Enjolras say it, he’s better.” He vaguely waves one hand, cueing his friends to take up his train of speech.

“It has come to our attention that none of us here rightly deserve to be in any sort of punishment,” Enjolras murmurs, and, as if his ridiculously overdone words are somehow more comprehendible than Courfeyrac’s direct ones, the freckled boy slowly nods, his eyebrows rising. “Courfeyrac, our friend here—”

Courfeyrac winks and jabs a thumb in his own direction; the new boy’s lips twitch slightly.

“—Has begun assembling a list of what we are being held accountable for. The hope is that we will be able to prove with it that none of us truly deserve such crude consequence for just actions.”

“That seems reasonable,” the newcomer allows.

“It’s reasonable,” Courfeyrac agrees brightly. “So, c’mon—you look like a nice kid, there’s no way you’re here for good reason. You can write it down yourself, if you’d like, but say your name out loud too, in case I can’t tell how to pronounce it.”

“Feuilly,” the boy murmurs as he rises and paces over to accept Courfeyrac’s paper, his eyes scanning it curiously.

“Cute!”

“And why are you here?” Cosette asks curiously. She’s still by Enjolras’s desk, half-sitting on the edge of it with her dark-painted nails splayed across the wood. Enjolras is sitting up quite stiffly in his seat, as though to avoid her radiating femininity.

“I’ve skipped a few classes. I had to cover a shift for a friend, at a coffee shop on the other side of town, and... well, punctuality was important.”

“I like you,” Courfeyrac declares.

Combeferre watches steadily. “It’s certainly a poor thing to be punished for. Assuming that you didn’t end up failing any of these classes from missing them?”

Feuilly holds his lower lip between his teeth as he writes. “I didn’t even go down a tenth of a percent.”

Cosette whistles, impressed, and Courfeyrac gives a somewhat delighted nod. “That is quite admirable of you,” he decides, his fingers tapping along the upper edge of the paper as Feuilly finishes writing and begins to scan the other columns.

“So you’re Courfeyrac... the blonde is Enjolras, and the other blonde is Cosette... you’re Combeferre,” he murmurs, turning to smile slightly at the others. “Nice to meet you. I have to say, I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone... particularly nice to be here... I’ve never been detained before, so it’s all a bit—well. I thought there’d be more smoking, at least.”

“Clean lungs, long life,” Courfeyrac pipes as the door opens and a light trail of smoke billows in. He scowls without looking up to meet the eyes of the room’s new occupant. “Hey, you’re not allowed to have that.”

“I’m not allowed to sell test answers, either,” a low but undoubtedly female voice replies, “but here I am, and their detention doesn’t erase the profit.”

Courfeyrac is barely halfway to raising his head before she’s before him in her thin, dark entirety, somewhat shaggy-cut black hair surrounding a face that’s almost pretty beneath its scowl. Ignoring Cosette, Enjolras, and Combeferre, who turn to watch her with varying degrees of disgust and curiosity adhered to their features, she taps the edge of her cigarette cleanly against Courfeyrac’s desk, leaving a definite burn mark.

“I am pissed that I have to be here,” she informs him, and he makes note of the triple silver piercings in her ears, the clarity of her glaring eyes. “And I have honestly no patience for anyone who’s going to snip at me about my life choices.”

“Not so much your life choices,” Courfeyrac allows, apparently unfazed by the nicotine-stained breath inches away from his face, “but more like... violating the school’s rules. Like, you’re literally not supposed to have cigs. It can get you in trouble and all that fun stuff. Trouble beyond your present trouble. Double trouble. But,” he continues, reaching out towards Feuilly, who stepped away at the girl’s approach—the startled-looking boy drops the liberation paper between Courfeyrac’s fingers, and he whisks it back to serve as a barrier between himself and the scowling smoker. “If you think your actions to be justified and feel just a bit rebellious, you’re welcome to sign your name onto here. We’re trying to be freed from the school’s limited and oppressive policies. It’s all very exciting.”

Her brows loosen, and a palpable layer of tension rises from the room. Enjolras is watching her intently, and Combeferre seems more than a little concerned, but it’s Cosette who takes the most interest—she slings herself across the room, long legs moving swiftly, and leans in, crowding the desk of Courfeyrac, who is forced to tilt his chair back once more as she tries to get a look at the newcomer.

“The Thénardier girl, right?” she checks, the tip of a pink tongue cresting mulberry-painted lips. “We’ve got a history class together. You were selling answers for the test, yeah?”

“And you got dress-coded,” the darker girl grouches in return, tossing aside the extinguished cigarette and reaching into her pocket for a new one. Cosette watches as though observing the movements of a wildcat.

“For leggings,” Cosette agrees, sounding almost proud this time. Courfeyrac’s eyes dart between the two girls, an expression of something like glee growing on his features.

“Yeah. What’s the point of this paper again?”

“Well—” Courfeyrac begins, but Cosette elbows him in the collarbone, eliciting a yelp and then effective if somewhat grudging silence.

“You should get Enjolras to explain,” she suggests. “The pretty blonde—”

“—Not her,” Courfeyrac murmurs with the beginnings of a smirk; “the other one, more pretty, less blonde—”

This time, Cosette’s elbow pins him in the throat, and he flails slightly backwards, prevented from crashing to the floor only by Feuilly gripping the back of the chair. Huffing, Courfeyrac nods his gratitude, and Feuilly’s response is an almost shy blink.

“Yes, the other one,” Cosette resumes calmly. The new girl is now watching her with a keen interest. “He’s very good at talking.”

“What if I’d rather have you do the talking?”

Cosette raises one stenciled eyebrow. “I may be somewhat easier to get along with.”

“Maybe, yeah.”

This time, Courfeyrac thinks to scoot his chair a good two feet away before uttering a soft whistle, and Cosette’s slender fist collides only with the air. She rolls her eyes and draws a sigh through her teeth, straightening up once more. “Alright,” she growls, turning away from the girl and towards the paper. Combeferre, behind her, is carefully watching Enjolras for any eye-twitching. “It’s like this. Two columns. Write your name on this one, your crime on the other, and try to make yourself sound innocent, because you probably are. I’m not going to get all in your business, but I imagine you have a damn good reason for getting any money you can, and punishment for it is actually ridiculous.”

“Yes,” the girl allows, the unlit cigarette between her fingers dancing in spirals across the bare wood of the desk. “I do.”

“Then go on. Courf wants us to show it to the supervisor, if he ever comes in, thinks that maybe we’ll be able to be convincing if we have legitimate enough reasons.”

“What I’m interested in,” Combeferre cuts in steadily as the girl snatches up Courfeyrac’s pen and begins to scrawl, “is how you got the test answers in the first place.”

“Consulted,” she mutters. “I have smart friends.”

“Éponine,” Cosette reads aloud, curiously leaning in to make out the name.

“Yeah.”

“Ooh, Éponine!” Courfeyrac, despite his hopefully present common sense, has decided to scoot in closer again, disregarding the warning looks that both Feuilly and Cosette flash in his direction. “You’re the one who never comes to that art class. The teacher’s just given up calling your name, actually.”

“Good for her. Nothing could keep me in that horrid room more than is absolutely necessary. I take the exams, do the projects on my own time, and stay out otherwise.” Her voice is sharp, and he tilts his head slightly.

“You can do that?”

“I get a zero attendance grade, but I can make up for it.”

“You must be pretty talented.”

“Is he always like this?” Éponine growls through her teeth, the words clearly directed towards Cosette.

The other girls sighs. “Hell, I don’t know. I met him five minutes ago.”

“Éponine!” a new voice cuts in then, and the three turn along with Enjolras and Combeferre to see the door opening once more, now letting in a group of three—two boys, one nervous and pale and the other dark with a shaved head, flanking a butterscotch-skinned girl with bronzy ringlets spilling across her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes are almond-shaped and amber, intent but friendly as she raises a hand in recognition of Éponine, who nods back.

“Quite the crowd this afternoon, isn’t there?” Courfeyrac notes, his gaze and Combeferre’s on the shaggy-haired boy, who can’t seem to make eye contact with any of them. “Hi, lot. You’ve picked just about the best day to be selected for detention, because, as it turns out, we’re going to bust this joint and free ourselves from the oppression of the public school system!” His eyes wander hopefully towards Enjolras, who sighs through his nose.  

“Good, but ‘bust this joint’ is a bit—”

“I’m working on it, working on it, God. Hello,” he adds, swinging around once more to face the three. Éponine has finished writing, and he drums his fingers across the paper. “If you haven’t killed anyone, you don’t deserve to be here. Write down your name and your crime, and we’ll escape this unjust punishment together.”

The bald kid narrows his eyes and raises one dark brow. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Oh, come on, one’d think that I have to say it a thousand times—”

“This is Musichetta,” Éponine sighs, pacing over to slouch into a vacant chair and lighting her cigarette boredly.

“Interesting name,” Courfeyrac notes in an absurdly bright tone. The bald boy’s eyes narrow, and the phrase if looks could kill flashes through his mind. He smiles wider.

“I’m Musichetta,” the curly-haired girl sighs, moving over to stand in front of his desk. “One would typically be able to figure that out without much of a struggle. These two are Lesgle—Bossuet—and Joly. Be nice to them.”

“Oh, I’m nice to everyone,” Courfeyrac declares, “so long as they aren’t, like, psychopaths. Or poorly behaved psychopaths. I imagine I’d get along well enough with a psychopath so long as she controlled herself. Here, jailbreak signup.”

Éponine tosses the pen to Musichetta, who catches it without looking and begins to add in her name in the neatest handwriting yet. There’s a moment of silence, during which Enjolras seems warier than ever; Combeferre’s stare is growing steadily more concerned, directed towards the nervous-looking boy, Joly, whose already pale face is gradually whitening as he watches the spiral of Éponine’s cigarette smoke.

“Are you alright?” he asks carefully. Joly jumps violently, his eyes flying wide, and the rest glance up curiously, save Musichetta, whose lips only press together a bit tighter as she writes.

“Oh, yes, I—I’m fine, sorry, quite fine,” he stammers. Bossuet takes a step closer to him.

“He doesn’t like cigarettes, ’Ponine,” Musichetta sighs, crossing a final T on the page and stepping back, lifting the pen over her shoulder for Bossuet to take. He accepts it, but doesn’t move closer, still keeping an eye on Joly.

“None of the boys here like cigarettes,” Éponine mutters, her voice slurred with the smoke.

“Put it out. You’re not supposed to have it, anyways.”

“Oh, come on,” Éponine grouches, but slips it out from between her lips and taps it a couple of times against the top of the desk, white ash sprawling across the blonde wood. “It’s not gonna hurt you.”

“Actually, um...” Joly pauses to swallow, and continues in a rush. “Secondary effects of smoke can be extremely harmful—even cancerous, in some cases, and—” His voice is spliced with a slight cough. “I shouldn’t even be here!”

“May I,” Courfeyrac cuts in, lifting a hand, “wager a guess as to what particular offense our friend here has been detained for?”

“Unexcused absences,” Joly sighs miserably.

“Yeah, no wonder.”

“What for?” Combeferre asks, genuine concern weighing his voice, and Joly shifts slightly.

“Lots of things... um, I could make a list if you—”

“He doesn’t need a list,” Bossuet interjects with a sigh, giving the smaller boy a careful nudge on the shoulder before leaning over with the paper and pen to write in his own name. “The problem, as we’ve talked about, isn’t any sort of physical sickness, it’s that this... skewed perception is preventing him from attending appropriately.”

“You seem pretty punk-leaning to be a stickler,” Courfeyrac comments, waving his fingers vaguely over his own dark hair in indication of Bossuet’s obvious lack—and there’s the killer look once more.

“How often does it interfere with your attendance?” Combeferre cuts in, ignoring the comment. “Because it could be a medical affliction in and of itself—”

“It’s not really your business, is it?” Musichetta snaps. He sits back, somewhat affronted, and Courfeyrac speaks up once more.

“Alright, alright, missy, let’s hold on here. You haven’t cleared your own criminal record with us.” He seizes the paper from beneath Bossuet’s grip the moment the pen lifts, and his eyes flicker swiftly down it. “Sold... oh, so you sold her the answers. That’s kind of cool. Isn’t school supposed to reward teamwork?”

Combeferre sighs through his teeth, still not looking away from where Joly stands.

“And you—oh, oh my God.” He takes a deep breath, attempting to compose the giggles that are now trembling along his shoulders. “Shit, I’m sorry, man. That’s harsh.”

“It’s not the first time that it’s happened,” Bossuet mutters, and they’re the first somewhat warm words he’s spoken—he seems almost abashed. “They say I’m a bit unlucky about it.”

“I’ll bet they do.”

Enjolras is halfway through opening his mouth in confusion when Courfeyrac folds the paper into the most impressively swift of paper airplanes and chucks it across the room, where it lands neatly on the blonde’s desk. Combeferre leans in curiously, and the two of their eyes widen, Enjolras’s with alarm and Combeferre’s with sympathy, as they scan the words.

“Gonna share with the class?” Éponine inquires from where she’s tracing abstract patterns into the light frost of cigarette ash coating her desk. “Or have you committed such an unbelievable felony that you shouldn’t even be here?”

“Mixed up the locker rooms,” Bossuet says shortly, and a wince of apology flashes immediately across Éponine’s features.

“Oh, that was you?” Cosette murmurs. “I remember that—I was in a stall, though, didn’t get much of a chance to see who the intruder was, just heard the ruckus...”

“I wasn’t intruding,” Bossuet snaps, and she nods, shrugging.

“Oh, sure. I didn’t quite understand what the fuss was about, to be honest. It’s not like you’ve never seen boobs before, right?”

“Well—”

Musichetta’s cool breaks into a snicker, and Joly just looks vaguely frightened. Bossuet is caught up in his mumbling, but is saved from having to provide a proper answer by the door opening once more, this time in what’s perhaps its most fantastic slam yet, seeming to tremble throughout the whole room.

“Holy shit,” Courfeyrac notes, smiling benignly over the tall form of the newcomer. “That was loud.”

“I’m pissed, of course it was loud.”

He’s red-haired, bright-eyed, and with the build of a quarterback; Éponine and Enjolras are the only ones who don’t at least slightly quail at his presence. He kicks the door shut behind him with just as aggressive an emotion as he entered with, and slouches over to a nearby desk, where he scowls at the chair for a bit, not making any movement to actually sit down.

In the resulting silence, Combeferre carefully folds the paper airplane again and sends it soaring back in the direction of Courfeyrac, who catches it one-handedly.

“Gonna give him your offer?” Musichetta asks, watching with her thin eyebrows carefully lowered.

“I don’t know, looks like we might be dealing with a real one here,” Courfeyrac replies. “He probably committed a murder or something.”

“Didn’t get the chance to,” the boy replies quite loudly, and Courfeyrac jumps in alarm. The newcomer turns around to face them all, arms folded over a loose-shirted chest; Enjolras and Combeferre are carefully observant, Éponine seems bored, Feuilly has taken on the look of a startled rabbit, Cosette and Joly watch with slightly open mouths, and Bossuet and Musichetta exchange a wary glance. Courfeyrac maintains his smile, though it looks somewhat more strained now.

“Well... that’s probably better for everyone, right?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s not like I was actually going to kill anyone,” the redhead whines, finally dropping onto the chair, which creaks below him. He has quite suddenly dropped the intimidating attitude and assumed one of a petulant child, though perhaps with a bit more profanity. “I mean—it would only be people who knew what they were doing; I wasn’t planning to just beat up some kid...”.

“Seems sufficient, by your standards,” Combeferre comments dryly, inclining his head towards Courfeyrac. “Go on and ask, then.”

Courfeyrac sighs, the sound somewhat over-exaggerated, and raises his voice a bit louder than is necessary to reach the other side of the room. “Hey, man—if you want to try and earn freedom, we’ll support you in the attempt.”

“Fucking grand.”

“I think that was a yes,” Courfeyrac mutters, leaning back with a somewhat satisfied expression. “We’re building a small army. Hey, though”—at half a shout once more—“we’re gonna need your name and your offense, so that we can throw ’em down on paper here and add you to our official cataloguing of minions.”

“Bahorel. They got pissed because I wanted to arrange a recreational punching-people setup.”

“So, like, a fight club.”

“Whatever you want to call it, sure.”

“Awesome. Well, long as it’s consensual, right...?” Courfeyrac’s halfway through winking when Enjolras sends him a brilliantly cutting glare, his eyes as sharp as the knife blades that their silvery shade recalls.

“Hey, yeah, didn’t you put up flyers?” Éponine speaks up from her corner. She’s pulled out two more cigarettes from seemingly nowhere, and is now attempting to stand them up beside each other, her brow furrowed with the act of balancing them. Musichetta’s eyes flicker between her and Joly, half-irritated and half-amused. “I was thinking about seeing you about that,” Éponine goes on, shaking her hair back. “Couldn’t you have been a bit more subtle, though?”

“I don’t want to be subtle, I want to whale on people.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, the gesture performing an excellent balancing act between disgust and respect. Combeferre’s lips are pressed thinly together.

“Bahorel. Wants to whale on people. A valuable addition to our ranks.” Courfeyrac mock-salutes, and Bahorel lazily inclines his head in response, his expression still impenetrably grouchy. “Think there’ll be anyone else? It’s, what, twenty after—anyone else would just be late.”

“The supervisor is fantastically late, in that case,” Cosette points out.

Joly’s eyes widen. “Do you think we’re in the wrong room?”

Feuilly shakes his head. “It was stated... rather clearly.”

“Hey, hey, did you have the chemistry teacher?” Courfeyrac asks eagerly. “Did he, like, practically spit in your mouth? I swear, that guy’s fuckin’ terrifying.”

Enjolras leans over to murmur something to Combeferre, and Musichetta turns to lecture Éponine about the fact that she has now managed to form a small tipi of what must be seven or eight unused cigarettes; sound swells softly in the room, a crowded enough buzz that barely anyone notices when the door slips open once more and a new figure slips in—small, blonde, and with such a clouded look in her violet-blue eyes that it’s hard to believe she came here on purpose.

The one to notice them is Bahorel—wide-eyed, curious, grinning slightly as he steps out of his chair and swaggers vaguely in the direction of the blonde newcomer. One eyebrow is cocked, and it’s in a very unsubtle way that he leans against the wall beside the door, one leg extended, shoulders loosened into a posture so casual it verges on painful. He’s quite unaware of the narrow-eyed look that Combeferre is directing towards him, and his voice is as smooth as he can render it when he speaks.

“Hey, cutie. You don’t look like you belong here.”

The blonde looks up distractedly, adjusting the messenger bag hung over her shoulder. She’s wearing a floral-print shirt, cut short above the elbows, and her hair is in a long braid, its honey-hued end nudging one thin elbow. “If it’s detention, I’m supposed to be here,” she assures Bahorel. Her voice is as light as her visage, and she seems entirely oblivious to the suggestive position that the other has assumed.

“Really? What for? Come on, you look like a right little angel.”

“Drugs,” is the prim reply, and she heads off to the nearest desk, with a bemused-looking Bahorel trailing behind.

“That shit’s bad for your health, man.”

“Not a man.”

“Alright, fair enough. They’re still bad for you.”

“I know. Oh, Courfeyrac, are you here too?”

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac exclaims in delight, glancing up from where he’s been scrawling curlicues into the corners of the swiftly filling notebook paper. “Hey, girl, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were above such petty criminal activity as what the rest of us have been engaging in.”

“It’s not criminal activity, I just... skipped... accidentally.” Jehan sighs and raises one hand, twining thin fingers around the end of her braid. “I got caught up in... clouds.”

“God, you’re a nerd.”

She ignores his comment and arranges herself carefully around the edge of the desk, eyeing Courfeyrac’s paper. “What’s this?”

“We’re trying to liberate ourselves from the brutal throes of detention. Enjolras’s idea.”

“It was not my idea,” Enjolras cuts across loudly, then sighs when Jehan glances over curiously. “Though I do endorse it. I only... well. You would do better to take credit for your doings, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac beams, looking rather satisfied with himself. “Thank you, Enjolras. That in mind, Jehan babe, I would be happy to apply my most gallant efforts towards freeing you from this dismal prison.”

“I’d throw in a punch, if it’s needed,” Bahorel adds vaguely from where he stands a yard or so away, his hands now shoved into his pockets, green eyes hopeful.

Courfeyrac takes a long breath, dark eyes narrowing. “Maybe you should give her some space.”

“It’s okay,” Jehan interrupts, and her voice is soft; Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows, and delight dawns over his previously guarded features like a fantastically cliched sunrise. “Oh oh oh, okay, fine. Cute. Proceed.”

“Eh?” Bahorel leans in a bit closer, frowning in confusion, and Jehan turns her back to him with a small smile, fingers trailing along the edge of her braid once more. Courfeyrac shoots a wink in the direction of Bahorel, who resultingly looks even more muddled; Enjolras and Combeferre, meanwhile, have been watching quite carefully.

“It would appear that some people will have trouble keeping their focus on the situation at hand,” Enjolras murmurs in an undertone.

Combeferre sighs and poises his chin on the heel of his hand, elbow against the desk. “There’s hardly a situation at hand other than boredom and lack of silence, though, is there? We’re practically halfway through this mess already—I was hoping I might at least be able to get some amount of work done.”

“You get work done without issue on your own time.”

“Regardless...”

“They are spirited, though,” Enjolras murmurs. His tone is careful, and Combeferre glances over to see that his silvery eyes are now following the tangle of Cosette, Éponine, Feuilly, Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly, all of whom seem engaged in relatively easy conversation—it’s true that there’s a certain something to them, a fascinating degree of energy that wouldn’t typically be found in as dull a situation as after-school detention. “Even if we’re hardly in real danger now, and though Courfeyrac is mostly playing to amuse himself, I... they’re a valuable group of people.”

“Planning to recruit them to your more serious purposes, then?”

“Recruit is an outdated word.”

“I’d never expect you to admit any facet of language to be too far immured in the past for proper use....”

“No, but it’s true. I seek a different meaning. I have no reason to go about recruiting them for my own good, for any sort of army, it’s only... if they have a cause to argue about, I am quite willing to facilitate; I—”

“You want to lead them,” Combeferre murmurs—Enjolras falls into silence. “You want to be chief of their passions.”

Enjolras shrugs slightly, his eyes lowering; Combeferre is consistently the only one who can divert his gaze from its target with words alone.

“That’s a bit adorable, actually. No reason not to, if they’re willing. You could use some friends outside of Courf and I.”

“I have friends—”

“You have people who look up to you. Respect you.” Combeferre turns back towards the others, but his smile is audible in his voice. “You need those who see you as their equal, and don’t let you forget it.”

His words are gracefully timed with the opening of the door, which is accompanied by a blast of cold air apparently radiating from the boy who then enters. He’s flushed in the freckled cheeks and his dark hair is tousled up around snow-frosted eyelashes, his stare wide and nervous as he slides into the room in an attemptedly subtle manner.

Enjolras’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Do you know him?” Combeferre asks curiously. There’s no response, and the snowy boy  begins to move carefully across the room, his bulky parka none too silent and accompanied by the crashing of what looks to be a black-cased musical instrument held against his side. Enjolras follows him like a fox tracing the movements of a rabbit, and the newcomer has almost reached a nearby desk when Courfeyrac’s voice shoots across the room like a lightning bolt, paralyzing him into a full-body expression of muted horror.

“Pontmercy!”

“Pontmercy?” Combeferre repeats curiously as Courfeyrac leaps into a standing position and Enjolras sighs through his teeth. “I don’t believe I know him.”

“Most likely because you’re enrolled in classes too advanced for his tastes.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Combeferre murmurs, his eyelashes flickering against the lenses of his glasses. “It’s unlike you to be so against a boy based on his ability alone....”

“He is outspoken,” Enjolras pronounces delicately, “about issues that he is thoroughly ignorant in the course of.”

“Outspoken, really? I wouldn’t think so.”

“Pontmercy, Pontmercy, come on,” Courfeyrac is saying, stepping uncomfortably close to the boy’s chosen desk and tilting his head in a reprimanding manner. “Detention? You’re supposed to be better than this.”

“I’m not in detention,” he mutters uncomfortably, folding his arms on the desk before him—the sleeves of his parka are long enough to hang past his fingertips. “But I left my hat at home and it’s cold out there and I just thought I could... sit in here for a bit.”

“We’re glad to have you, though. Enjolras probably isn’t—he sort of hates you because of that one thing you said about Napoleon forever ago, but I think you’re cool enough, and I’ve got lots of other people to introduce you to, if you’re up for it.”

“I’d... kind of just like to sit here, actually, if that’s alright.” His lips seem to be numb with cold, barely able to articulate the words. “I’m getting picked up in half an hour.”

“Aw, come on. You’ve got to have some sort of sociability buried deep within that skinny little figure. Most of them are nicer than Enj; you’ll be fine.”

“Could I just—?”

“Comrades,” Courfeyrac declares as though his antics weren’t already holding the attention of the whole room, turning and throwing a fist into the air to emphasize the strength of the word he chose. Enjolras groans quietly, and Combeferre twists his lips to stifle the laugh tickling within him. “I am proud to say that this is one introduction I can actually make. M’sieur Marius Pontmercy, a bit of a nerd, but sweet at heart. I daresay he deserves to be here least of any of us—”

“He wants to be here, Courf,” Combeferre starts, but is immediately silenced.

“Don’t invalidate my point. The key technique to political work is subtle manipulation, right, and I’m subtly pointing out that we have this poor kid in detention when he didn’t do a single thing wrong. Jesus, he’s the most straitlaced person in the whole damn school, probably. So if we ever get a supervisor, we can tell them that, and, well, what with the rest of us—it’ll be the last straw to topple us free from this hellhole. I mean, honestly, I think we’ve got enough credit already, what with the fact that none of us have actually done anything wrong, except for Bahorel, I guess—oh, and Éponine, but she has a reason—”

“I have a reason,” Bahorel grouches. Jehan shoulders him, and his eyes go wide, silence coming to him immediately as he offers her a hopeful grin. She tames her own lingering smile and turns back to face Courfeyrac, her chin high and her eyes delicately observational.

“Hell, you don’t know who any of them are, do you, Pontymerce?” Courfeyrac gestures to the whole of the half-full room. “I suppose I ought to do introductions both ways.”

Marius begins fiddling with the edge of his parka, out of which a few down feathers are poking. He shrugs noncommittally, and Courfeyrac nods, looking satisfied. “Good. It’ll be a chance for me to show off my name-remembering capabilities, then—ooh, ooh, and I’ll say what you all did, too.”

“Is that really necessary?” Musichetta mutters—she seems rather keen to get back to her conversation with Éponine, but Courfeyrac huffs and waves vaguely in her direction.

“Hush. Yes, it is. Alright, let’s go around. That’s Enjolras. You know Enjolras. He pulled that fire alarm last week, and everyone’s pissed at him because, as you said, it’s cold outside. However, he was doing it to save Combeferre from a previous detention—that one being Combeferre, with the glasses, and he got jailed for defending me, and then I did for punching a jerk who messed with Enjolras, so we’re a pretty cool little friendly trio. The rest of them don’t have quite so good reasons as us, but, you know, we’re generous with our liberation.”

Marius nods slowly, his movements dragged as if through molasses. He looks fantastically exhausted, but Courfeyrac doesn’t spare him so much as an instant.

“Cool. So then over there’s Bahorel—he tried to start a fight club but didn’t actually hurt anyone yet, so, you know, selling point—and Jehan or Jehanne, she’s generally good with whatever you want—she was sort of vague about it, but it sounds like she got stoned and, like, distracted by clouds. Which is painfully characteristic. Catch is that she didn’t get hit for the drugs, it was the skipping class that resulted—and she had a reason for that. Tricky wording, eh?”

“...Okay.” Marius seems rather caught up in his astute observation of Jehan’s chest, which is flatter than even Cosette’s. Courfeyrac nails him over the forehead with the casual back of a forearm; he startles and sits up straighter.

“Pay attention, Pontmercy. That’s none of your concern.”

“...Sorry.”

“I’m used to it,” Jehan murmurs.

“Anyways,” Courfeyrac huffs, “next lot—Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta. Musichetta? Yeah. They’re cool, I guess. They seem cool. Cooler than me. Joly’s a little jumpy, though—jumpy but cute—don’t throw anything at him. Not that you would. Joly missed too much school—faked sickness notices and all; in my opinion, damn school really shouldn’t investigate whether they think an excuse is legitimate, if the person needs to stay home they need to stay home—anyways, Bossuet... right, right, mixed up the locker rooms. Poor guy. And ’Chetta was procuring tests answers for Éponine to sell. Éponine being the grungy brunette over there—”

“Grungy?” Éponine repeats, looking more amused than offended.

“And the blonde she’s flirting with is Cosette. Who broke dress code. Tragically for her; not tragically for Éponine, apparently.”

A slight smile clings to Cosette’s lips; Éponine rolls her eyes and stifles her own laugh. Marius is wide-eyed, looking rather emotionally torn, and jumps multiple inches to the side when Courfeyrac reaches over to slap him encouragingly on the back.

“Yeah, maybe next time, kid. Oh, and the super cute one in the corner is Feuilly. He’s sort of shy, it would seem, but also a total sweetheart, and he got stuck in here because he was trying to help a friend out with their work shift, so, come on. That everyone?”

“It’s everyone,” Cosette declares, tapping her fingers lightly on Éponine’s desk. “Dare we break our attention from you, now, then?”

“S’pose so. Make yourself comfy, Pontmercy. We’ve got a half hour left to endure,” Courfeyrac mutters over his shoulder.

“You seem to be, uh... having fun more than enduring, actually,” Marius comments quietly. Courfeyrac snorts with laughter.

“Yeah, that’s right. You know, I like it—I like doing things in good spirit. You with me?” He holds up a hand for a high five, which is not returned, then sighs and slams it into the surface of the desk instead. Marius flinches slightly, but manages to compose himself better than last time. “Well, in any case, here’s to hoping that it won’t get any more crowded, at least. I mean, I love... new friends as much as the next guy, but, damn, it’s a lot of names to keep track of. I almost lost Musichetta, did you notice?”

Marius is nodding along vaguely, looking quite as if he’d like nothing more than to dissolve into the floor and vanish entirely. Cosette and Éponine have resumed curiously conversing, while Musichetta is leaning back over a desk, her coppery hair long enough to brush over its surface, her eyes rather zoned-out as she throws a couple of inaudible comments in Bossuet’s direction. Feuilly and Joly stand about with their hands in their pockets, occasionally glancing here and there but making eye contact with no others; Bahorel’s started up talking to Jehan again, who takes his words with the softest of smiles, and Enjolras, at Combeferre’s side, bears a far-too-familiar expression—eyes narrowed, lips pressed carefully together, more intensity than usual in the set of his fine jaw.

“Still determined?” Combeferre murmurs.

“Pontmercy is... not the type I’m looking for, but look at the rest of them. Look.”

“I’m looking, and I do see what you mean. Though I am curious as to how you’ll be approaching it. They’re not exactly organized right now.”

“Approaching it... I’ll approach it like this,” Enjolras murmurs. And then he’s standing up, and somehow the movement, fluid as it is, draws the eyes of almost the entire room—Marius quails, Cosette perks up, and the rest display varying degrees of interest, with Courfeyrac going so far as to grin unsubtly. “Students—listeners—if you would care to spare a moment....”

Feuilly straightens in the corner, his brows drawn in a way that isn’t entirely critical, and Bahorel and Jehan seem to be burning with twin curiosity, their eyes wide.

“My friend Courfeyrac has been bombarding you all rather incessantly with his joking imitation of liberation—at this point, it appears that we have no monitor anyways; the paper will be useless. However—if none of you object—I would like to keep it.”

Joly blinks in confusion.

“I would like to keep your names on me....” And as he’s saying it, Enjolras seems to grow properly aware of the many pairs of eyes pinned to him. He doesn’t flinch or quail; he does flush, but it’s with pride rather than embarrassment that his cheeks warm as he straightens yet taller, only the tips of his fingers poised on the desk surface. “And I would like us to come together again, sometimes. Feuilly. You were absent from school due to your good heart.” His tone warms slightly at this, and he directs a slight nod towards Feuilly, whose cheeks brighten. “Joly—for your own wellness, though perhaps mental more than physical.”

“Well, I—” Joly begins; Bossuet and Musichetta each raise a hand to silence him, and he falls back with a somewhat whimpering sigh.

“Many of us, I can easily tell, do not have it easy, with the way this school and this society treats us. Jehan—Jehanne—Courfeyrac, myself. Bahorel, Cosette, Éponine, if you’ll excuse the assumption.”

“Assumption’s dead-on, pretty boy,” Éponine shrugs. Bahorel just snorts, not quite able to cover up his grin.

“You all know of what I speak. You all know that our culture is tainted, but this school—it is a mess, and the biggest of those that I encounter each day. Perhaps changing this school will not change anything for France, for the world, but it will change things for us, and I believe that something as simple as that is powerful—it is essential.”

“Preach it, man,” Courfeyrac mutters.

The noise that the rest break into then is nothing but positive—there is light in every face around the room; even Bossuet and Joly have their own faint, lingering smiles. Enjolras, as the overpowering warmth begins to truly sink into his skin, allows a slight grin of his own to drift upon his lips; he was not expecting such immediate enthusiasm, especially when so few words—by his standards—were spoken. Yet what he sees now is union. These people like each other, and they like what he says, and, like inexorable golden thread, it is winding around them all, binding their joints, lighting their words.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre murmurs.

He glances over, and his friend is inclining his chin towards the doorway; turning, Enjolras sees that there is someone new here. Someone who is not smiling like the others—though there is a certain strength to his imperfect features, a lingering glow more reluctant than that of any of the rest of them. His eyes are ashen-shadowed and his dark hair mussily curled; a hooded jacket is slung over his shoulders, deep green and emphasizing his thin frame.

He is watching Enjolras with an expression so tender that it burns.

“Do you know him?” Combeferre asks as the young man, catching Enjolras’s gaze, looks quickly away, reaching a hand up to rub thoughtlessly at the back of his neck.

Enjolras can’t quite look away.

“I... don’t believe I do.”

“He seems as enraptured with your words as the rest.”

The first name out of the boy’s mouth as he makes his way across the room is “’Ponine”—he raises a hand, a half-smile drifting to his features, and doesn’t look back in Enjolras’s direction.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Éponine demands, but not without a wildcat grin, as she reaches out to catch his fingertips in some strange imitation of a handshake. “Dealing out vodka?”

He shakes his head and glances between Cosette and Musichetta. “No place to sit?”

“No reservations in detention.” Cosette smirks and pokes the tip of her dainty tongue out, winking. The hooded boy rolls his eyes.

“Thanks, blondie.”

“Her name’s Cosette. She’s my new best friend. Get on out, Grantaire.”

“You wound me.” Grantaire swallows, then glances back towards Enjolras for the barest of instants—just enough to ensure that the golden-haired boy’s eyes are still situated upon him; flushing a bit too brightly, he turns back to Cosette and Éponine. “Anyways—”

Cosette giggles.

“What?”

“Grantaire, holy shit,” Éponine mutters, her eyes wide with amused delight. “Have you seen the way you look at that kid?”

“I—”

“Go talk to him, you ridiculous faggot.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Come on—”

“No. What’s going on here, anyways? I heard him say something about—”

“It’s supposed to be detention,” Cosette cuts in, “but the supervisor hasn’t yet arrived, even though it’s ten minutes from over. But Enjolras there has decided that it’s more like the perfect opportunity to spring a social justice campaign on us.”

“Oh.”

“It actually sounds quite cool,” she goes on, twining her fingers and raising her arms high above her head, shoulders flexing as she emits a tiny, kitten-like yawn. “I mean, he made a list, and it seems like most of us are actually here for some pretty shitty reasons. It’s just lovely of him to be taking actions towards fixing it.”

“You think a high school kid is gonna change the setup of the administration?” Grantaire’s tone seems desperate to remain unimpressed even as inklings of despondency linger around its edges. “They find ways to bend the laws. That the government fails to enforce.”

“Enjolras doesn’t seem to like the government that much, either,” Éponine notes, “so he probably considers both sides of that crappy association just various levels on his political obstacle course.”

“You’re drawing a lot of conclusions about him. Seeing as you probably didn’t know he existed before walking into this room.” Grantaire is visibly irked through his tight smile.

“Holy shit, holy shit, look, he’s getting defensive.” Éponine seems thrilled.

“Didn’t you... not know him before, either?” Cosette probes gently. Her lips are pursed into the careful suspension of a smile, which Grantaire rolls his eyes at.

“I doubt politics are his only interest.”

“You just think he’s hot.”

“Fuck off, Éponine.”

“He heard what Enjolras had to say,” Cosette cuts in; “from the way he was looking at him, his words had plenty of a say in this fascinating new burst of interest.”

“Burst of interest,” Grantaire repeats. “You’re gonna be a fuckin’ poet, blondie.”

“He’s still looking at you.” Cosette’s smile, fully materializing, is quite prim.

“No, he’s not.”

“He so is,” Éponine edges.

“Can we talk about something else?” Grantaire whines, and his voice escalates to such a pitch that Éponine has to bite back a snort, though she nods generously and taps her fingers along the edge of the desk, not before sneaking a quick look to affirm that Enjolras is indeed still darting the occasional narrow-eyed glance in their direction.

“Fine. Why are you in prison here with the rest of us? I mean, you’re not exactly straitlaced, but I thought you’d have the sense to stay out of a shithole like this.”

“I’ve been shitty about turning assignments in. Got fine test scores, though, so no one actually picked up on it until just now. And they punished me in the only way that teachers seem to acknowledge the existence of.”

“They’re basically punishing you for being smart,” Cosette concludes.

“More or less. Smart is overstating it a bit.”

“You’d be a fuckin’ genius if you were ever sober, Taire-bear,” Éponine laments, with little genuine concern in her tone.

“I’m sober.”

“Yeah, maybe so. Certainly moody enough for it.”

“Grantaire,” Cosette cuts in, then pauses, lifting her eyebrows to check whether she got his name right. When he responds with a vague shrug, as if barely aware of his own identity, she nods and goes on. “You are recognizing that this is a shitty system, then. You know you shouldn’t get in trouble for that.”

“Trust me, I know all too well that the system’s shitty. But every damn system on the planet mistreats people in one way or another. Dreams of improvement are just as likely to cause bloodshed as betterment.”

“I don’t think, like, a social justice club is going to cause bloodshed,” Éponine notes.

“It’s just the first of many—”

“Look,” Cosette sighs, reaching over and placing her petite fair hand upon Grantaire’s rougher, darker one; he pauses and blinks, his brows sinking in alarm. She leans in until her nose is practically touching his, her blue eyes dancing. “You should go sign up for his group, if you want to hear him talk more. And it’s not just him, either, is it?”

He leans back slightly, his frown deepening. She straightens with a sigh; Éponine watches curiously.

“You came here for a reason,” Cosette notes steadily. “According to Éponine, it’s quite unlike you to turn up to anywhere you don’t want to be. And if you didn’t know that Enjolras was going to be here—didn’t even know that Éponine was going to be here—then it’s clear enough that you’re lonely, and were just looking for whatever meager form of socialization you could manage. Seems to me that you could benefit quite a bit from forging yourself a bit of a friend group. Éponine seems lovely enough, but she isn’t enough for you, honey.”

Grantaire doesn’t reply, but his tense lips loosen slightly; his gaze drifts downwards, no objections to any of her words forming.

“So—go on. Sign his sheet. Introduce yourself to him.”

“Go for it,” Éponine adds, and her tone is sincere.

“I despise you for making me do this sober.”

“He ‘despises’ me for lots of things,” Éponine informs Cosette cheerfully as Grantaire hauls himself up straight and turns towards the jammed-together desks containing Enjolras and Combeferre. Courfeyrac has drawn the attention of the room’s  majority, speaking intently to them in one corner with one hand wound in a very paralyzed Marius’s coat hood, and the coast is quite clear; there’s nothing but air between himself and Enjolras as Grantaire paces over, his teeth ground tight.

Combeferre acknowledges him first, while Enjolras determinedly stares at his desk. “Hello.”

“Hey. Just wanted to say that the things you said, they were....” He bites back ‘inspiring,’ as the very concept of it paints his throat with nausea. “...Interesting. Not necessarily correct, but interesting.”

The added phrase catches Enjolras’s attention; he glances up and his eyes sparkle with the intensity of firecrackers. Grantaire steps on his own toes.

“What about my words was incorrect?” Enjolras demands, his voice prickling, each syllable a delicate ice shiver down Grantaire’s spine. He desperately wishes, for the fourth or fifth time now, that he was not so horribly stone-cold sober.

He smiles.

“Several things. I would just love to enlighten you, but we’ve only got five minutes left, and I don’t intend to be late to my four o’ clock appointment with solitude. Besides, I’m sure you have better things to be doing than sitting around after hours in an empty classroom.”

“Perhaps I do. One of those things may be a much-needed debate.”

“Unfortunate that our schedules don’t line up, then.” Grantaire’s words are on fire; they dash neatly off his tongue, leaving behind a residual burn that’s only fueled by the bright intensity of Enjolras’s unrelenting stare. “An additional meeting may be in order.”

“I have no desire to schedule anything for you alone, but I would not bar you from attending the next time that all of us gather together.”

“Is that a cemented reality, then? This next gathering that you speak of?”

“As of now, it is.” Enjolras lifts the paper, lined with the loopy, scribbled, and cramped names of the young people that the room bursts with the presence of. Combeferre slips a pen into his waiting hand. “Sign your name, and I will see you there.”

Grantaire glances between the two—Enjolras is staring at him hard, while Combeferre keeps his gaze carefully level, inclined towards the other side of the room. He accepts the pen silently, managing to slip it into his own clutch without touching Enjolras’s fingers, and lowers its tip to the lined paper below him. He fills in the second column first, dashing out some thoughtless words about missing assignments, then switches back to the first. The green ink of the pen flows out in an elaborate curve as he trails the shape of a single initial, an exquisitely curled letter R.

“There.” He drops the pen neatly and pushes the paper back in Enjolras’s direction. “When should I expect to see you again?”

Enjolras considers for a second, then stands, his voice raised. “There is a nearby cafe, on the corner of the block.” All eyes in the room flicker over, become riveted to him once more. He holds their attention effortlessly. “If there is no objection, we will meet there in a week’s time, at three in the afternoon once more. We may then further discuss precisely which aspects of this school system we wish to better. Are we in agreement?”

“Thoroughly,” Courfeyrac agrees, pumping a fist and beaming.

“Sure thing,” Éponine shrugs.

Joly and Bossuet nod in synch, Musichetta and Cosette each offer a grin, Feuilly tips his chin in affirmation, Jehan quirks a soft smile, Bahorel claps his hands together, Combeferre meets Enjolras’s gaze strongly, and Grantaire folds his arms; Marius is the only one to frown, and he does so only briefly.

“Then so it shall be. I will see you then, my friends.”

“You know,” Combeferre murmurs as the second hand creeps around to the 12, announcing four o’ clock, and Grantaire is one of the first to head out of the room, “I think you may have finally found a boy who’s up to par with you on that old-style speech.”

“I rather hate him.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Combeferre sighs, and pretends to make no note of Enjolras’s quiet smile when it forms.

 


End file.
